


A Heartbeat of Insanity

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bondage, Javert Comes In His Trousers, M/M, Martingale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Valjean comes to release Javert at the barricade, the encounter does not quite go as either of them thought it would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heartbeat of Insanity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/gifts).



> A treat for voksen's prompt "martingale kink"

Javert concentrates on his breathing when Valjean approaches, knife in hand. It will soon be over, he tells himself, ignoring the warm ache between his legs where the rope has gripped him with unrelenting firmness for so long that now every breath, every shifting of his aching muscles turns that grip into a fierce heat he is not quite certain how to name. He has called it pain, for now, because it cannot be anything else, and pretends that there are not breathless fractions of a heartbeat when he strains against the grip ever so slightly just to feel that red-hot pain increase. 

But it will soon be over. Valjean will have his revenge. The ropes that tie him to the table are cut and fall away, though the rope that passes between his legs is still taut, a line of aching warmth chafing against sensitive skin. When Valjean leans closer, he welcomes that ache, flexes his arms until it turns into pain once more.

It does not help, he realizes with horror; Valjean is close now, so close, bending over him as if to touch him, and then Valjean's hand closes around the martingale and he shudders in fear as Valjean tries to pull him up by the rope.

The sound that escapes him is mortifying. He would be grateful that the insurgents have left the tap-room, only this is worse, so much worse, to have Valjean of all people witness his shame...

"Javert!" Valjean's face is shocked, and that is almost enough to make Javert laugh, but when Valjean releases the martingale, all he can manage is another of those shameful sounds. His prick is hard and insistent, has been hard for so long, trapped by coarse fabric and the taut rope of the martingale, and this shame in him burns so strong that he feels nothing but relief that it will all be over very soon.

"Javert, are you injured?"

For a long moment, Javert does not understand; when he does, he can only barely hold back a laugh. He does not answer – there is nothing he has to say to Valjean; if Valjean has not yet found his shame, and if fate will still grant him a death that is not a mockery of all his life has been, he will not ruin it.

"I am fine," he forces out from clenched teeth. "Do what you must. What is injury when you have a bullet for the police spy in your pistol, Valjean."

At that, Valjean almost seems to flinch, but then his face sets with determination and he puts the weapon aside. "Were you wounded? Are you bleeding?" he asks, and his concern is so out of line that now indeed a laugh escapes Javert. It comes out as little more than a bark, and then Valjean's hands follow the line of the martingale, ever so careful, as if Valjean were truly concerned about an injury, and then–

The sound that breaks free when Valjean's searching fingers encounter his hard prick is a whine from somewhere deep within his throat, and he shudders and trembles, caught between mortification and the sudden, insane need to push into that touch, to demand more – certainly a man about to die can be excused for a heartbeat of insanity in the moments before his death–

Valjean's hand freezes, and then, after a long moment of uncertainty, Javert cannot stand it anymore, the ache of the rope, the humiliation of having Valjean know, that touch he does not know how to bear even in its weightlessness. He closes his eyes and arches against those uncertain fingers, begging wordlessly for Valjean to make an end – of his need, of his life, he cannot even say in that moment. It does not matter anymore, nothing matters when Valjean exhales, his breath shuddering strangely like his own, hot against his face. Half-mad from nothing but the exquisite pressure of those fingers that are not his own, he wonders if it is disgust – and then Valjean’s hand searches out the firmness of his cock beneath his trousers, hesitant at first until another whine breaks free from Javert’s clenched teeth. He pants for breath as Valjean rubs slowly along the full length of him, as if to memorize the shape of his prick through touch alone, fingertips finally pushing against the head with irresistible, sweet pressure, and Javert gasps, unable to breathe, eyes tightly closed as he tries to push against him again. He does not know what this is, he does not know why Valjean does not laugh, does not mock, does not call the insurgents back in to sneer at his shame. He knows that he is failing, at last, that he is falling, that he, who has always striven to be irreproachable, should have been able to suffer the rope silently – and yet.

It is too late, he thinks, nearly out of his mind as he tries to arch further into Valjean’s touch, ignoring the way the noose around his neck tightens, that the already aching skin at his throat is rubbed raw, it is too late, all he once thought he knew of himself is falling apart, and if it is going to end like this, then what does any of this matter?

Valjean does not speak, but his palm flattens, molds itself against his cock, and Javert can feel the warmth of his skin even through the wool of his trousers, can feel the ache of where Valjean's hand presses him against the taut rope of the martingale. He has never known anything like this: the sharp pain of the rope where it cuts into sensitive skin and the sweet, generous warmth of Valjean's touch, rubbing along him ever so hesitantly, and it is not enough – he wishes Valjean's touch would hurt like the martingale, wishes the rope were gone and his prick exposed only to Valjean's gentle generosity, and he wants to weep with fury at what has become of him, that he is– that he wants–

It is unlike any release he has ever found by his own hand. There is heat pooling in his stomach, all his muscles tightening; he is aware of the tender pressure of Valjean’s too-kind fingers with all his body, and then he is gasping for breath as his body arches and he trembles and is undone as he spends himself in hot spurts.

When it is over, he keeps his eyes closed for a long moment. Valjean's hand is gone; he slumps back onto the table, feeling the ache of the rope like fire against his overly sensitive skin now.

At last he forces himself to open his eyes. He will not die like this, he thinks numbly. He will not die a coward. He might die a sinner, a madman – but he will not die a coward, unable to face what he has done.

"Now end it quickly."

Valjean does not answer immediately. Instead, he reaches out, and there is a slight tremor in the hand that grips the knife so tightly that his knuckles show white against the skin. Javert holds his breath – and then the blade cuts through the martingale, leaving him with the noose dangling like a leash from his neck, his hands still bound, but at last free from the painful pressure between his legs. “I will not drag you out of here like a beast, Javert. I know what you think of me. I intend you no harm.”

Javert laughs, the sound very bitter as he flexes his hands again, focusing on that ache instead to distract himself. “No, I suppose not. There is no need, now that you have my humiliation in its place.”

Valjean looks at his own hand for a moment so that Javert swallows. The thought of that skin damp with his release leaves him strangely breathless, and he finally forces his eyes away while Valjean hesitates – then moves to gently smooth a wayward strand of hair out of Javert's face. His voice is calm as he speaks, although his fingers tremble slightly against Javert's skin. “I would have neither death nor pain nor humiliation. Nor revenge.”

Instinct makes Javert shy away from the touch; he tries to pretend that his trousers are not sticky and damp, tries to pretend that even now, the ache of the coarse rope around his wrists does not stir something inside him. This madness he feels was brought on by his captivity, certainly; the sudden urge to lean forward and press his mouth against Valjean's is not real, is something brought into being by danger, maybe even by fear – but it is not a part of him. It cannot be a part of him.

Valjean's voice is tired when he speaks once more. His hands remain by his side; he does not reach out again. “But you may have your revenge, should I live. Or justice, I suppose you would call it. Come now, we still have to leave together, or it will raise suspicion, but once we are past the barricade, I will let you go. You may find me at Rue de l'Homme-Armé Number 7.”

“Do not think–” It starts to come out as a snarl, but then suddenly Javert falls silent, the words gone. He feels tired as well, most of the fury leaked out of him, though humiliation still burns strong. He remembers the gentle press of Valjean's fingers against his prick, how kind the touch felt after the ache of the rope, the ease Valjean’s hand gave him. He wonders what it would be like to search out the shape of Valjean’s prick with his own hand. He wonders what it would feel like to press his lips to Valjean's mouth. He shudders. What world is this, where the convict will set the spy free, where Javert longs for the touch of Valjean?

“Rue de l'Homme-Armé,” he murmurs to himself, then looks up, gives Valjean a sharp look.

“I will be waiting, Valjean.”


End file.
